Good enough to occupy half a train car. The other label at the far end said THE FLYING ZUKOVS. Again, someone had added a sketch, this time of a stick figure hanging from a trapeze.
Nico opened the door to pass into the next wagon. On the platform, which was like a small open vestibule, a man sat in a folding beach chair, looking at the scenic vista as we raced along the Hudson River.
We entered another dormitory-style car, and I scanned the names of the eight occupants as we hurried past.
Another platform and there was the brass nameplate, a more permanent fixture than in the other cars: FONTAINE DELAHAWK.
Nico faced the door and rang the buzzer.
Mike saw a chance to get around him, grabbed my hand, and pulled me in the direction of the next twenty-odd cars in the long train as we heard the deep voice of Delahawk ask who was at the door.
I looked over my shoulder as I ran behind Mike. Nico appeared to be stunned as he waited for Delahawk to open up for him. We were already through the rear of the car — a solo apartment — and into the next one.
Here the names were also illustrated by an amateur artist. The four suites seemed to hold the all-important costume designer and three performers who worked with animals.
“Keep running, Coop,” Mike said as he led the charge forward. “Let’s get as deep into the company — as many cars back as we can — before Delahawk lumbers along. We just need to talk to somebody. Anybody who’ll point us in the right direction, or tell us we’re off base.”
I paused to catch my breath. “We can’t be too far wrong, Mike. Kristin only called for Nico, only knocked on the wall to summon him, when you described our suspect. She was eating out of your hand till that very moment.”
We were on the move again, working our way back through the train. Three cars later, Mike stopped to adjust to the darkness as we entered another subterranean tunnel. We were crossing under the narrow strip of water that would take us east and out of Manhattan, into the Bronx, for the trip to New England.
I was leaning against the window and skimming the eight names on the whiteboard that faced me. One of them was familiar, not just because it was more American than the foreign surnames. I repeated it to myself silently, then said it aloud. “Bellin.”
“What?”
“That name. Bellin.”
“Yeah?”
“Daniel Gersh,” I said. “You told me to call his mother this morning.”
“So?” Mike was ready to move ahead. He pushed off from the wall.
“That’s her name now. Bellin. His stepfather is Lanny Bellin.”
Mike made an abrupt about-face and stepped in front of me to open the door to the suite of cubicles.
“It’s the fourth name on the list,” I said to him.
He counted three doors and banged his knuckles once on the fourth one, twisting the handle at the same time. I was at his shoulder, peering in.
Reclining on the single bed, listening to his iPod and looking almost as surprised as I did, was Naomi’s brother, Daniel Gersh.
FORTY-TWO
“THE elusive Daniel Gersh,” Mike said. “Aka Bellin.”
Gersh backed himself up into the corner of the bed and removed the earphones. “What do you want?”
“I know you told us you were going to take acting classes in the fall, but somehow I didn’t figure you for clown school.”
“I’m not—”
“A real Pagliacci, huh? A homicidal clown. Great act to take on the road, Daniel.”
There was a crackling noise overhead and I could see a small speaker in the ceiling, next to a recessed light fixture.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” There was a cough as the person cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentleman, good evening. This is Fontaine. I need your attention for a moment.”
“You’re out of your mind, Detective. You got this all wrong,” Daniel said.
“It would appear that two officers of the New York Police Department have joined us for the next leg of our trip. This is no cause for alarm. None at all. I’d ask that you all stay in your rooms for the next hour or so. We will of course keep the Pie Car open later into the evening. Do not — I repeat—”
“Make it right for me,” Mike said. “Tell me what you’re doing here. Tell me about your friend and what cubicle he’s holed up in, Daniel.”
“Do not have any conversation with these officers,” Delahawk continued. “I suggest you keep your doors locked and do not have any conversation with them, nor answer any of their questions.”
“What are my rights?” Daniel asked, looking at me for an answer. “I’ve got rights, don’t I?”
“The closest you come to that on this friggin’ train is having my right fist in your face,” Mike said, stepping toward the cowering man, ready to pull him off the bed onto his feet.
“It’s my sister who’s dead, Detective.”
“And there’s another woman missing now, you dumb bastard. A woman who was with Naomi at Christmastime, when you worked that play. She was at the same performance that Naomi attended.”
“Nico and Giorgio will be passing through the train,” Delahawk droned on. “Do not open your door to anyone except either of them. And use your intercom to call my room if you see these police officers. One is a man, the other a woman. They are not dangerous, of course. They are police officers. But there will be no conversation with them unless I am present. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”
“What are you doing here, Daniel?” Mike asked.
“You heard him. I work for Mr. Delahawk. I can’t talk to you.”
Daniel kept looking over at the desk. I could see a switch and a mouthpiece. He had given away the location of the intercom. I squeezed past Mike and seated myself.
“If anyone sings, Daniel, it’s gonna be Ms. Cooper. And nobody’ll like that. You talk to me instead. What do you know?”
The kid knew he had his back against the wall. “Nothing. I only came on here yesterday.”
He had gotten off the bus from Philadelphia just hours before Ursula Hewitt was killed.
“Here?” Mike asked. “On this train?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s your talent? You had a pretty good vanishing act going when you skipped out on us.”
“I’m a stagehand. I told you that.”
“Tell me again and lose the attitude this time. Ringling Brothers isn’t the Chelsea Square Workshop. They don’t hire scabs. You got a union card?”
“I do. Temporary.”
“Funny about that. My boss was having someone check Local One today. I think I’d have had a phone call if they’d confirmed that was true. Lying to me is a bad way to start.”
“I’m not lying,” Daniel said, reaching toward the desk for his wallet.
Mike grabbed his hand. “You scope it out, Coop. This kid’s a natural paper shredder, remember?”
I opened Daniel’s wallet and pulled out his credit cards and identification papers, which were wadded together in a side compartment. The driver’s license with his photo were in the name Daniel Gersh, but the union card — like two of the credit cards that probably linked to his stepfather’s account — said Daniel Bellin.
I handed the Local One temporary ID card to Mike. “You scammed me on that one, Daniel. Now tell me what brings you to the big top, okay? Don’t waste any more of my time. If we’d had your help from the get-go, two other women might still be alive. I’m praying for one.”
“Don’t try and guilt me, Detective.”
“What’s the guilt factor? Did you introduce Naomi to her killer?”
Daniel Gersh didn’t answer.
“I know you didn’t do that on purpose,” I said. “Talk to us about it. We can all save a life if you move on this now.”